


Digging the Velvet Pit

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: My Wife and My Dead Wife [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Bodily Fluids, Bodily Functions, Canonical Character Death, Dissociation, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Gore, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Murder, Necrophiliac longing, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Victim Blaming, everything ever, fugue state, terrible people doing terrible things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 13:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6081273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My wife and my dead wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digging the Velvet Pit

**Author's Note:**

> It's a series! The title of which, and the quote in the summary, comes from the Robyn Hitchcock song of the same name.  
> I think that I warned for every horrible, disgusting thing that happens in this story, but if you're especially sensitive, Dear Reader, please turn back. Nothing good happens here.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Experiments must be done. This is science.  
“Of course it is,” Edward mutters to himself, pushing his hair back from his eyes. He's sweating. Why is he sweating? The building is a comfortable seventy degrees, and he isn't, he believes, feverish. He has to think. He digs out a handkerchief, from the clutch of his pocket, and tries to dry his face. He only succeeds in painting his skin with his own perspiration.  
The facts.  
The facts are these.  
There are dead mice in the apartment. Again, Oswald informs him, with crossed arms and a tapping toe, when he comes across one. The mice have appeared two or three times, to Edward's knowledge, but Oswald's tone suggests a well-established pattern. Edward has no real memory of these other occurrences, but in dreams, he sometimes sees unfold scenes of discovery. These have the swimming feel of a dream, but they register so firmly in him that he's sure he's remembering.  
He's been dissociating again. It's not as severe as it's been in the past, and the mice suggest that it's not random; that his mind is editing out potentially disturbing episodes. To protect him. There's no indication that he's done anything unpleasant, and he can't imagine why his mind would try to protect him from that, at this point. There is danger, but it's not from him, to himself.  
A somatic cause isn't out of the question. The other night he- well, he fainted, he supposes. He must have gotten up to go to the bathroom, and due to some cause still unknown, swooned. As terrible as a brain tumor would be, it would explain a lot of this. A brain tumor can be treated. And if it can't, you mourn. You mourn the loss of your own life even as you still live it. You rage, and weep, and feel sorry for yourself. It's a living nightmare, but it's a nightmare that has its roots in reality. It's something that can be seen, and touched. Is that truly so much worse than suffering from an affliction that possesses no root?  
Except, perhaps, those roots that reside in the ground.  
The last dream is easily explainable. It's natural that he'd fear discovery. He's spotty with his preparations and his clean-up. Part of it is laziness and fatigue. Part is the thrill of living with the terror of being caught. No matter how much he might like doing these things, some part of him will always fight, because it's a threat to his safety. Perhaps it's a simple matter of quieting his mind, allowing himself to just enjoy it. The dry details of concealment, and the possibility of catastrophe, as well as the wet parts.  
There are other, less savory details. The scent of perfume in the apartment, on the night that he lost consciousness and Oswald found him on the floor. A few days later, there was the smear of lipstick on his penis. These things, too, are very easy to explain. If Edward's stomach is sufficiently strong to do so.  
But he's a scientist. There's no shame in science. The perfume was a kind used by both his mother and Kristen. The lipstick was a shade they both owned. After his mother's death, Edward inherited a few of her personal possessions. He's never been able to bring himself to throw them away. No matter how much he loathes his need to hold onto them. Kristen's glasses weren't the only artifact of hers he retained. There's a stick of her deodorant in his medicine cabinet. She left a couple of pairs of clean underwear in his dresser, in case she forgot to bring over clothes to change into the next morning. One day, her purse overturned in his living room, and later, he found a tube of her lipstick under the couch. He never got a chance to give it back to her. If he's going to train himself to stop concealing from himself, he's going to have to be honest with himself. He misses her. He can admit that, at least. The rest can come later.  
At least he's no longer sweating. This is good. It's comforting. There are no answers- but does Edward want answers? Does he, really?  
He can, he finds, live without them. It's not good science, but at some point, science has to end, so that his life can begin.  
He goes back to work. He's pleasant to Dr. Thompkins. Relationships need to be nurtured and monitored. He's still not sure that she doesn't know more than she indicates. There's always, always the possibility that she's behind all of this- that Edward's imagination is simply as limited as he believes hers to be. Her office grants her a fair amount of power, and her formal education, at least, is far more extensive than Edward's. He spends his lunch hour looking up exotic neurotoxins with hallucinogenic effects. Most of them he knew about, but seeing all of the information together, at one time, is staggering. This is to say nothing of the newer, and stranger still, varietals that have come into common currency in the past few years in Gotham. If Dr. Thompkins wanted to, she could easily dose his food or drink. She could even inject the toxin subcutaneously with a short, fine needle. If the poison were sufficiently potent, that's all it would take. If repeated exposure were necessary, Dr. Thompkins is a warm, affectionate person; even Edward gets a pat on the shoulder every now and then. In the afternoon, Edward locks himself in the bathroom, and examines as much of his body as he can. There's nothing that he can see. He'll have to ask Oswald to check, later on.  
“What am I looking for?” Oswald asks, rolling his eyes.  
“Small, red needle marks.”  
“And why am I looking for small, red needle marks?”  
“I'm trying to ascertain whether or not my supervisor is covertly drugging me with a hallucinogen.”  
“If you want to fuck, just say so,” Oswald says disgustedly.  
“No, no,” Edward reassures him, “Well, yes, yes I do. I do want to have sex. But first, I need you to tell me if you notice anything out of the ordinary.” Edward takes off his shirt, and lies face down on the bed.  
“What, like scratch marks from your girlfriend? You can't make me jealous. I don't care who you fuck.”  
“That was-” Well, it was a lie, of course, but a necessary one. “That just happened once. I never saw her again. I promise. Please. Just look.”  
Oswald sighs. “I don't see anything, Edward. You really haven't been with anyone else?”  
“I swear on my life.”  
“All right. I guess I believe you. You might as well leave your shirt off.”  
It might not be jealousy, but whatever it is, it looks good on Oswald. It feels good on Oswald, too. How much he wants to touch and be touched. He's positively greedy. If Edward were slightly more reckless in this respect, he'd actively try to encourage Oswald's concern for his position. It's one of the rare times that Oswald puts his hands on Edward, as opposed to simply laying himself down, splayed like an anatomical specimen or sacrificial offering, for Edward to operate upon in the necessary ways. His hand on Edward's cock is- Edward likes to imagine- possessive. That the grip of Oswald's fingers is meant to rub away the lipstick that only he can still see, like a kind of pornographic Lady Macbeth.  
Edward has to push his luck.  
“I want to be inside of you.”  
“What?”  
“Just with my fingers. If you don't like it, I'll stop.”  
Oswald blinks, his eyes suddenly incredibly pale and clear, and for a moment, Edward thinks that he's going to be reprimanded or laughed at, but Oswald just swallows, says, “Okay.”  
Oswald's level of experience in these matters, Edward is sure, will continue to remain a mystery. Past a certain age, it's no longer polite to ask. At Oswald's age, it'd be downright rude. In some things, he's obviously well-studied, unto boredom. In others, he's charmingly wide-eyed. In this-  
In this, he evidences the same interest he's been showing in all of Edward's body, all night. There's a delightful hitch of his breath as he's penetrated, and a low moan as Edward moves with greater intensity. He can take two fingers- which is surprising, in a way Edward can't qualify. Surely, it's a good thing that Oswald knows what he's doing, that he knows how he wants to feel. There's less of a chance that Edward will hurt him, or simply fail to satisfy him. Yet, it's not altogether comforting. Edward had plenty of time to get used to the idea of Kristen having a lot of boyfriends, but he has no evidence of Oswald's past activities. Beyond what he observes, now. The sounds Oswald makes, the way he moves, subtly directing Edward. Ultimately, it proves nothing. It's certainly easy enough to fuck yourself. Even Edward is no stranger to that landscape.  
He goes down on Oswald, Oswald's less problematic leg resting on his shoulder. It's alien and overwhelming, fucking him from the inside and the outside at once, and it fills Edward with such a delicious ache that he's sure he's going to come without being touched.  
But he keeps himself together as he sees Oswald through his orgasm. Kisses Oswald, his mouth wet and bruised. Finds himself again in Oswald's arms, being handled with real desire. Oswald's mouth is on his, and his hands are on Edward's hips, pulling him in. And Edward no longer cares how or why he comes, as long as it's soon. As long as Oswald's touching, him somehow. Kissing him. Doing it to him. Doing anything to him.  
He's not sure how it happened, but he's sitting on Oswald's face, gently guiding his cock into Oswald's mouth. Pulling out slowly, and going back in even more slowly. He hears himself moaning. They're the sounds of a dying man. Oswald's hands are on his ass, directing him, showing him what to do. It's due to a matter of simple miscalculation that he comes on Oswald's face. Oswald frowns, looks as though he's going to say something unpleasant, but doesn't. Gently, Edward wipes his cheek clean.  
“Thank you,” Oswald says stiffly, still frowning.  
“It was an accident,” Edward offers.  
“Sure. I'll bet, at least, that she never let you do that. Even by accident.”  
It makes Edward feel bitter, on the inside. He wants to reassure Oswald again. To tell him the truth, even. There have been no blow jobs from strangers. Just the slow unraveling of Edward's mind. He can't, though. He can't pull Oswald in. So, instead, he pushes. He gets back into bed, embraces Oswald from behind.  
Against Oswald's ear, he says, “Next time, I want to put my mouth there.”  
“I'll bet you do,” Oswald mutters, too tired to sound truly contemptuous.  
His provocation neatly snuffed by that little retort, Edward's both forced and free to protest internally: but I do. He always wants more of Oswald. Somehow, it's never enough. It's not that Oswald leaves him unsatisfied- even for Oswald's usual laziness, he pleases Edward without even trying, without having to do anything. There just seems to be a door, through which Edward would very much like to pass, into a place of greater intimacy, still. It's all but unimaginable.  
To his waking mind.  
When he sleeps, it's there, laid before him. He's not a complete mystery to himself. It might be painful, but he can admit the truth. Killing Kristen was the fuck of his life. Part of the reason why he thinks about it so little is because the recollection inevitably arouses him. When he's with Oswald, he won't even let himself remember that it happened- for fear that Oswald will somehow divine the source of Edward's excitement. Think him unnatural, disgusting. It's not for Oswald, anyway. It's just for him. He's selfish, he knows, but he doesn't even want to permit Oswald to share in the pleasure it gives him.  
To remember how her body shook with protest, in an imitation of orgasm both crude and sublime, even as she consciously stopped fighting him. What a thrill it must have been for her, as well, to finally meet the end she had to have known would one day come. Playing with dangerous men, what else could she expect? But Edward is no common thug. All of those other men would have never understood what a truly beautiful thing it was. How lucky for Kristen that, even if his mind hadn't been ready to acknowledge it, his body knew exactly what she wanted.  
People have types. Kristen definitely did. Edward's sure that he does, too. Oswald's more sophisticated than Kristen, enjoys far more than the pay-off the game leading up to it, but still, Oswald must know what awaits him. He just wants to be chased, rather than simply flinging himself forth, hoping to be caught. Edward could chase him forever, and never tire. There will come a time, though, when Oswald allows Edward to catch up with him.  
His neck is just as slim as Kristen's was. Far paler, though; a lily to her rose. Oswald would fight more than she did. It might get messy. That could be good, too. In fact, there's no doubt in Edward's mind that it will get messy. He's going to bathe in Oswald's blood. He's going to wallow in it. He's going to cut out Oswald's heart, and preserve it. Before then, though, Edward will need some time alone with the intact body. That must definitely happen. It's his greatest regret that he was too shattered to consider that possibility with Kristen. She would have been softer than even, in his arms, unmoving, gently cooling. Oswald, who's always slightly cool to the touch, will be downright frigid. That part will be messy, too; in death, the body gives up all of its secrets, everything it holds in. Edward finds that he doesn't really mind. Oswald's fussily, amusingly shy in matters of bodily necessity. He won't even let Edward watch him piss. In death, though, there is no shame. There's nothing left to fear.  
Edward wakes. The sheet is wet. For a long, nasty moment, he's not sure whether it's from semen or from urine. He touches the stain. Sighing, he separates the sheet on his side from the mass of bedding, then disentangles it from Oswald.  
“What are you doing?” Oswald groans.  
“Go back to sleep,” Edward says, stiff with fatigue and irritation.  
But Oswald sits up. “What happened?”  
“Nothing you need to worry about.”  
“Oh,” Oswald makes a face, “Do you have no self-control, at all?”  
“Nocturnal emission is beyond one's control.”  
“What are you, permanently turned-on? You're like a cat in heat.”  
“Only female cats experience estrous,” Edward mutters, taking up the sheet, and depositing it in the laundry hamper.  
“I don't know why you're so upset,” Oswald sniffs, “It's not the first time one of us slept on a wet spot.”  
Of course, he can't tell Oswald that it's the cause of ejaculation that makes the difference. Oswald isn't supposed to know about this. He isn't supposed to know what Edward wants. If Edward has his way, he never will. Fantasy is fine and good, everybody has socially-unacceptable desires, and accidents happen- but a premeditated murder, one with such a motive, is, even to Edward- even now- monstrous, still.  
“At least you didn't try to fuck me in my sleep this time,” Oswald says, pulling the remaining blankets around himself.  
“I did what?” Edward whispers.  
“I woke up and you were on top of me.”  
“When?”  
“The other night. How do you not remember that?”  
“I was asleep,” Edward says faintly.  
“Parts of you were certainly awake.”  
“Did I hurt you?”  
“No. You were just... insistent.”  
“Oh.”  
“But I punched you in the ribs, and you snapped out of it.”  
“That's where that bruise came from.” Involuntarily, Edward touches it, now something to be cherished, because he knows its source.  
“Just go back to sleep,” Oswald says, already turning onto his side. He allows Edward to wrap around him, and soon, Edward slumbers.  
He dreams. Kristen's wearing his mother's sable, and the Hermes scarf, and the big, round sun glasses that Edward broke as a child. For hours afterward, he'd tasted blood, and he never touched anything of his mother's again, unless she told him to.  
“It's not a surprise, you know,” she yawns, in his mother's ever-sleepy tone. In the morning, there were bloody Mary's. In the afternoon, there were all the medications that he's since looked up, memorizing their names. In the evening, wine, then vodka tonics.  
“What's that?”  
“That you like a little air conditioning. Remember when I had that little mishap, and you found me in the middle of the afternoon, and you put your hand up my-”  
“I was checking to see if your heart was still beating,” he snaps.  
“Honey. Baby boy. You touch a person's neck for that.”  
“Not if you're a child, and you don't know how.”  
“No. And not when you've already been all sorts of places.”  
“Why are you doing this?”  
“Doing what, honey?”  
“Why are you trying to make me think that I'm losing my mind.”  
Kristen laughs. “Your mind's in a far lost place, my little lamb. It's where the wild horses run. You lost that little twinkle a while back. I'm just here to remind you of all of the things you'd rather forget.”  
Feeling helpless, he asks, “Like what?”  
“Oh, this and that.”  
“Are you real? Is this something that's happening? Or am I disenraveling?”  
“How many hours are there in the day, sweet pea? Ask yourself if there's enough time for a growing boy to get all of the sleep he needs, and still be everywhere at once.”  
“But how?”  
“You're the chemistry set, buttercup. You figure it out.”  
“I need to see you.”  
“I need a new right hand. What's your point?”  
“I need to.”  
“You need a lot of things.”  
“I need.”  
He wakes.  
“Shut up, Edward,” Oswald says, covering his ear with the pillow.  
But the smell of tuberose is in Edward's head, and now, he knows why.

“I want the Rohypnol.”  
“Why?” Dave asks, lighting a cigarette, “Hot date?”  
'Cold date,' Edward wants to say, but Dave would never understand. No one understands this. Edward's always alone in this. It's starting not to be as nice as it was.  
“I just do.”  
“Yeah. Sure. Let me talk to my guy.”  
“Good.”  
When Edward returns to his office, there's a donut fixed to his desk with a scalpel through the hole in its center. Now, he knows that he's not merely losing his mind: Edward might be a lot of things, but he's not a Freudian. Part of this, at least, is real.  
As he eats the donut, he writes a brief note. There's no guarantee that she'll look there, but Kristen's slot in the mail room is as good a place as any to leave it. They still haven't taken off her name. Seeing it stirs an ancient feeling of anticipation and joy. It's like catching a glimpse of an animal you thought was extinct.  
“Edward,” says Dr. Thompkins, “I was looking for you.”  
“Well, you found me.”  
“What is going on, Edward?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Someone left you...” she makes a face, “a present.”  
“Oh, I ate it. It was just a prank. A funny joke.”  
Her mouth falls open. “You ate it? Tell me you're kidding.”  
“It was a little stale, sure, but other than that, it was perfectly fine... You're not talking about the donut, are you?”  
“No. Edward. Someone left a dead mouse in your locker. Jim told me. Someone noticed the smell, and when they opened it-”  
“Oh, dear.”  
“And it was missing its-”  
“Yes. I'm sure that was another prank. People in this place can have such a ghoulish sense of humor.”  
“Edward, I'm worried about you.”  
“You needn't be, Dr. Thompkins.”  
“If you ever need to talk-”  
“You'll be the very first person I come to.”  
She doesn't appeared to be satisfied by that, but what can Edward do? He just doesn't have the time and energy to see to all of these women and their ridiculous whims. A growing boy can't get all of the sleep he needs, and be everywhere at once.

“This wine tastes like shit,” Oswald says with a scowl.  
“I'll get you something else,” Edward says, and tries to take the glass.  
“No. I'll drink it. Just don't buy it again.”  
“I won't.”  
Oswald's out before Edward even finishes making dinner. It's all right. Edward can eat it all, himself. For what he's going to do, he'll need a lot of energy. He does the dishes. He picks Oswald up, carries him to bed. Oswald's face in repose is unspeakably sweet. It almost breaks Edward's heart. Of course, he's sorry about this, all of this, but one has to do what one has to do. He takes off Oswald's jacket and shoes. Loosens his tie. He considers undressing Oswald more than that, but it wouldn't be right. He pulls the sheets up over Oswald, and leaves him. He makes a pot of coffee. He opens the window, and unlocks the door.  
It's midnight when there comes a rapping at the apartment door.  
Edward swallows, but his mouth is still dry when he calls, “It's open. Come in.”


End file.
